


redamancy

by jeannbeann



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Female Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, Kidnapping, he made me post this i wanted to keep my bias to myself lmfao, hence the rating, im blaming eli idc, my summoner is a big dumb goofball that means well i swear, not beta read ill take my typos and my shame and leave, sleepy legend deserves the wORLD, so pls be mindful, thank u eli for the title it's very fancy and very sweet, there is kidnapping and somewhat graphic descriptions of violence and mayhem, theres also a smooch, theres also the threat of torture but nothing actually happens, this is .... pure self-indulgence, this is mostly sweet and fluffy BUT!!! there is violence, this is the first work in the kiran/haar tag and im both proud and embarrassed goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeannbeann/pseuds/jeannbeann
Summary: He shakes his head. He certainly doesn’t envy Kiran. He’s had people try to kill him before, but it’s nothing in comparison to the increased number of would-be assassins targeting Askr’s sole Summoner. He realizes it was a good thing he decided to skip his afternoon nap and accompany her today, after all.Maybe Cormag had a point on her needin’ an escort, he muses, just as his sharp eye registers the gleam of a blade when the boy unsheathes his dagger,but at this rate, I figure that’d be a full-time gig./Or: three times Haar helps the Summoner, and one time she helps him.
Relationships: Kiran/Haar
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	redamancy

**Author's Note:**

> blame [eli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrymiqote/profile) for making me post this self-indulgence, but I hope you all enjoy
> 
> also, this follows the rule in the Tellius games that laguz are weak against fire magic and wyvern riders are weak against lightning!

i.

Haar has good instincts. He may not always be inclined to actually _use_ them due to the effort it takes to actually do so, but they’ve never steered him wrong before.

That’s why, when he spots the delivery boy walk up to the stall they’re browsing, his curiosity is piqued. They’re at the marketplace today. Kiran is determined to find a new saddle to replace his wyvern’s worn-down one, and he’s reluctantly tagging along to ensure she doesn’t get swindled. It’s a bustling day, and Haar knows that it isn’t at all unordinary for a merchant to receive new stock, most of all for such a popular stall like the one they’re at now. That doesn’t stop the twist of his gut the moment his eye lands on the boy, though. He seems innocuous, young enough to scarcely breach his twenties. He works quickly and diligently, unloading boxes—full of leather goods, ranging anywhere from books to saddles to boots—behind the stall. He doesn’t say a word, not even to the merchant he’s delivering all the cargo to.

_Huh,_ Haar thinks, eyeing him curiously, but says nothing. Kiran is admiring one saddle that has caught her eye, made with rich, thick and dark leather. Instead, Haar only schools his expression into the same one he’d likely wear at any other time: disinterested and sleepy-eyed. He has a clear view of the boy from where he’s standing beside her—and judging by the intensity in the boy’s eyes as he watches Kiran talk, he’s none the wiser to Haar watching him anyway. The wyvern rider’s gut does another little turn when he sees the boy’s hand drop to his belt, reaching for something beyond view. _Ah, so that’s it, is it?_

He shakes his head. He certainly doesn’t envy Kiran. He’s had people try to kill him before, but it’s nothing in comparison to the increased number of would-be assassins targeting Askr’s sole Summoner. He realizes it was a good thing he decided to skip his afternoon nap and accompany her today, after all.

_Maybe Cormag had a point on her needin’ an escort,_ he muses, just as his sharp eye registers the gleam of a blade when the boy unsheathes his dagger, _but at this rate, I figure that’d be a full-time gig._

He yanks Kiran back just before the boy’s dagger can slice through her neck when he swings at her from across the counter. To his credit, the boy recovers quickly; he gets one foot atop the stall table and leaps over, blade poised to try again. The boy is fast, he’ll give him that much—but Haar has the advantage in strength and experience. He steps in front of Kiran and grabs the would-be assassin in mid-air, one hand on his wrist and the other on the scruff of his shirt. He twists the boy’s wrist, hard enough that he drops his weapon with a wince; then he spins, spurred by momentum of gravity already pulling the boy down, to slam him onto the cobblestoned floor.

The impact is hard enough that the boy is instantly winded, but Haar never likes taking chances. He pockets the dagger and pulls the boy to his feet, pinning his hands behind his back. “It was a good try,” he tells him wryly. When the boy clumsily kicks at him, he tightens his grip just enough for him to cringe and go still. “Best not to struggle, yeah?”

The boy curses and continues to do just exactly that. Haar sighs. _‘Course there’s no guards when you actually need ‘em,_ he thinks wryly and looks around the bewildered crowd around them for any telltale white-and-gold of Askr soldiers. He spots a flash of gleaming gold armour trying to push through the outer rings of the crowd, but he doesn’t allow himself to relax yet—most of all when he realizes the boy is only struggling for the sake of appearances now, not to actually get away. He sees the boy glance over his shoulder, and bites back another sigh when the final piece of the puzzle clicks. _Figured he was too young and clumsy to be actually working alone._

Fortunately, Kiran seems to have pieced together the same thing, if the way she quickly backs away from the stall to hover nervously by his side is any indication. It’s just in time, too; the merchant-turned-assassin swipes at her, as if to snatch her by the coat, before he freezes at realizing that he’s a beat too late. His eyes dart from Haar to her and back, likely weighing his options. Haar quirks an eyebrow back at him. A few terse moments pass as they’re locked in a stalemate, waiting to see who budges first.

“What are ya _waitin’_ for?!” the boy hisses at the man. “Grab her and get me outta here already! This hurts, damn it!”

It’s enough to make the man finally make a decision. With a roar, he upturns the table and sends his wares scattering across the plaza, using the commotion as cover to flee. His robes flap in the wind as he pushes past the people, hurrying towards the back streets.

“Here, hold,” Haar tells Kiran, who takes the boy with a bewildered, ‘ _um_ ’ but still keeps a steady grip on him. The wyvern rider reaches down to his belt to unlatch one of his hand axes, testing the feel of it in his palm. They’re small, but they’ll get the job done. He eyes the fleeing man, estimates the distance as he rears his arm back, and throws it with a grunt.

The axe flies high above the crowd’s bewildered heads, metal singing as it spins through the air. Haar watches as it dips in a smooth arc and pierces through the man’s thigh, enough to make him sprawl on his face with an agonized squawk. The wyvern rider clicks his tongue; he needs to practice throwing more. He had been aiming for the man’s neck, but he supposes this works, too. At least he isn’t able to run away.

Kiran still looks impressed. “Wow,” she whistles, and looks at him with a shaky, but relieved grin. “That was like something out of an action movie.”

Haar takes the boy back from her, who wisely isn’t struggling anymore. He’s likely smart enough to realize it’s better to come quietly now that his only ally is incapacitated. “Movie? Like those moving picture things you always talk about?”

“Yup. You’re a certified Tom Cruise, Haar,” she snorts. Then, before Haar can ask her what or who a Tom Cruise _is_ , she looks down at the scattered items and frowns. She picks up the saddle she had been looking at earlier, just as the guards rush up, spears at the ready. “You think I can still buy this?”

Haar is half-tempted to tell her it isn’t worth it anymore, but she turns a hopeful gaze up at him and he thinks better of it. “At this point, we can probably take it for free,” he shrugs, handing off the sullen boy for the guards to take. He mutters a short thank-you when another, holding the merchant, hands him back his throwing axe. He makes a face at the blood and cleans it off on the merchant’s robes, unfazed by his glower. Sliding it back onto his belt, Haar says, “Either way, I think that’s enough shopping for today. Let’s grab it and head back.”

He isn’t surprised when Kiran leaves money for the saddle behind anyway.

She heaves it into her arms and falls into step with him back to the castle, quiet for a long moment before she says, “Thanks.” He hums curiously in response and she clarifies, sounding sheepish, “For saving me, I mean. I should’ve known better, since people have tried to kill me or kidnap me from the market before, but…I guess I got too sucked into how fun it was to just look around at everything. It’s—nice, y’know? Hanging out with you.” She clears her throat. He doesn’t command on her pinking cheeks; last time he had, she had only turned redder and refused to speak at all afterward.

So, instead, he only snorts and says, glad that he can mean it, “Yeah? Well, I guess it wasn’t so bad for me, either. It’s always nice to get some quality time with everyone’s favourite Summoner.”

Kiran sighs at that, but the important thing is that she’s smiling now. When she speaks again, the odd shyness is gone from her voice, replaced with cheer, “Now that I’ve seen you in action, though, I think you’d totally dominate in the axe-throwing competitions CHOP throws every Thursday.”

Haar rolls his eye. “Barst already nagged my ear off about joining that blasted ‘club’. Don’t you start, too.”

“Come _on_ , you’d be great at it! They even have muscle-flexing competitions every Sunday—”

“Sorry. Busy.”

“Napping doesn’t count—”

The banter continues all the way back to the castle, light-hearted and playful. It’s almost enough to make Haar feel alright with missing his afternoon nap.

(Almost. It gets easier, he thinks, hearing Kiran laugh.)

ii.

Then, a week later, the Summoner is taken during mid-patrol of Askr’s coastline.

The messenger comes in the form of a battered Lethe, who bursts through the front gates in a frenzy. She tracks in mud and rain from the storm outside, the wind howling before the guards manage to push the doors shut behind her. She shifts out of her cat form, fighting to catch her heaving breath, violet eyes intense. Then she yells, breaking through the calm in the throne room, “Kiran was taken!”

Her voice rings through the hall, her words bouncing off the cobbled walls. The chatter inside immediately falls to a stunned, worried hush.

She stumbles further inside, favouring her left leg, and goes on desperately, “We were ambushed by pirates off the south pier—t-they knew our route, knew exactly how to target us, the dastards! They used powerful fire magic—Ranulf is still in pursuit, b-but— _damn it_.”

She crumples, caught by Nanna who supports her. The laguz winces. Her body is littered with horrifying burns and gashes, the likes of which would take down any lesser person. Shaken, Nanna already musters up a spell to cure her, but Lethe pushes free out of her arms to snap, “Do _not_ coddle me! I’m—I’ll be _fine_ , I only returned for reinforcements! T-The last thing we want is for them to get away to sea, those blasted beorc are likely _faster_ out in the damn water—”

Haar doesn’t stop to listen to anymore. He only exchanges a glance at Cormag, who’s already rising out of his seat, and together they tear out of the castle to the stables. He hears the commotion behind him, the rally of other Heroes already moving to join the search, but he ignores it. It doesn’t matter who is going, only that _someone_ catches this boat before it’s lost to the sea.

It’s easier said than done. It’s never easy to ride through a storm, even for experienced riders like them, but Haar spurs his partner on. His wyvern streaks through the grey skies with a vengeance, equally determined to track down the missing Summoner. “Keep your eyes peeled, partner,” he mutters to his steed, already scanning the pier below, eye darting over the dozens of boats docked and rocking in the moor. “Considerin’ how quick Lethe is, they can’t have left yet. I doubt Ranulf would’ve let that happen, either.”

The rain beats down at him, soaking through his tunic. He didn’t stop to armour himself properly, clad only in his casual wear; the most he has on is his belt with his throwing axes, and his axe is still sheathed in his saddle. He ignores the chill, steeling himself against his own discomfort. There’s no room for worrying about himself right now.

“Haar!” comes a cry over the winds and he cranes his neck to look up at Cormag, soaring above him. “By the furthest pier! Red sails!”

He looks, just in time to spot a body being kicked overboard by a man with a tail. He doesn’t have to tell his partner twice. He presses himself to his wyvern’s back as the beast tucks its wings in and dives down, banking off just in time to lash out with a tail at full-speed. It catches one of the men in the head, instantly knocking him out-cold; a swing of Haar’s axe takes out another, before their element of surprise vanishes. The pirates on-board are already scrambling to defend against the new aerial attack.

Ranulf, who looks just as bad if not worse than Lethe had, kicks one man in the chest, hard enough to send him sprawling. He’s likely too exhausted and injured to shift back into his cat form. “Glad you could make it. I knew Lethe was the right choice to go back,” he calls out to them, his relieved grin strained. “Her voice is way louder than mine.”

“Don’t worry, there are more reinforcements arriving soon,” Cormag tells him as he dives off Genarog in an impressive show of acrobatics to skewer another pirate attempting to sneak up on the laguz. His lance pierces through the enemy’s leather armour like paper. His wyvern lands on the deck the same time he does, jaws snapping an enemy’s neck before flinging the body overboard. The lancer spins around to block the swipe of an axe, shouting over his shoulder, “What’s the situation? Where’s Kiran?”

“Below deck. She’s being held by the biggest and ugliest of the bunch,” Ranulf explains. His ears twitch, as if sensing danger, and he just manages to roll out of the way of the blast of an Arcfire; the fire roars past, licking at his fur, blazing hot enough to make the rain evaporate on contact. He strains to stand again. Haar quickly heaves him out of harm’s way, placing him behind him; his wyvern hovers over him protectively with a low trill. The laguz sags a little. “Thanks. It’s been a little rough, as you can see. The good thing is that Kiran is alive—that much I know for certain. The bad news is that these fellas came prepared to take her no matter how much beorc-power it takes.”

Haar blinks rain out of his eye and tightens his grip on his axe. “Numbers don’t count for much if they don’t have the skill to back it up,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders and bracing himself for a fight. “Hang back and keep an eye out, got it?”

He tears into the battlefield. Cormag joins him, working in tandem with his swings to cleave through the hoards of burly, muscular men that seemingly continue to pour out of the gigantic ship’s lower decks. Haar’s words prove true soon enough, though; even if they’re severely outnumbered, they have the experience and skill to trump the enemy’s sheer multitude.

Then, just as he’s carving his axe through one of the crew’s last few mages, there’s an explosion from below deck.

His first thought is _Kiran_ , followed by a quick realization that any sort of blast on a ship is terrible, most of all in its own hull. The telltale creaking of the ship beneath them is indication enough of that much. “As if things weren’t bad enough,” he mutters to himself as he yanks his axe free and narrowly dodges a fireball thrown by another mage, “now we have a _time limit_.”

Cormag casts him a grim glance. “Watch my back, alright? I’ll head below, see if I can track down Kiran—”

“Wait,” Ranulf’s alarmed call cuts him off, “there she is!”

Haar spins, watching as a familiar woman stumbles out from the plumes of smoke beginning to bloom from the open gates leading to below deck. His relief is short-lived at seeing her injuries—she’s sporting ugly burns across her arms and neck, bleeding from an ugly gash on her forehead, and sporting an ugly black eye—but she’s alive. She’s missing her coat, and carrying a large tome in her hands.

She looks up blearily and he spots the relief unfurl on her face when she spots them. She doesn’t have much chance to hurry towards them, though. Another shadow emerges from the smoke behind her, large enough to hurl her over a beefy shoulder as if she weighs nothing. Kiran immediately flails, using the tome the only way she knows how: smashing it over the man’s face repeatedly until he grows tired of it and flings her aside like a sack of potatoes. She hits the side of the ship and crumples, arms shaking as she tries to push herself to her feet again.

“You _bitch_!” the man roars. He’s a grisly sight. He’s shirtless, burns seared into his muscular skin in mottled blotches; half his face is just as burned, his hair singed off. Enraged, he stalks towards her, yelling hoarsely, “You sneaky, connivin’ little cur! Look at what ya _did_ to me!”

“You…you did that all on your own,” Kiran wheezes, looking dazed as she manages to lift herself enough to glare back up at him. “The next time you try and burn someone, try…try and _aim_ first.”

The man towers above her, fuming, “Ooh, yer a smart one, ain’tcha? I was only gonna burn ya a little to clip yer wings, just ‘nough to keep ya from ever bein’ able to run away again, but to hell wif that!” He reaches down and grabs her by the hair, yanking her viciously to her feet. He leans in to hiss into her face, ignoring her struggling, “I’m gonna teach ya to think twice ‘fore ya try ‘n pull another fast one on the great Barclay, wench. After all, I ain’t gettin’ paid to return ya in one pretty little piece, so I might as well have me _fun_ wif ya—”

Two things happen: Kiran aims a clumsy, but hard kick between Barclay’s legs, just as Haar rushes forward and swings his axe in a mighty arc to chop his arm clean off. The man howls, stumbling back in agony, legs shaky from the blow, hand groping at the bleeding stump that remains of his arm. He curses, fumbling with bloody fingers for the curved cutlass sheathed on his belt. Haar strikes out with a hard knee just as his fingers wrap around the hilt. The wyvern rider feels a flash of twisted satisfaction when it connects with his gut, making him double over, winded; then a second knee hits his nose with a sickening crunch. He catches Barclay by the hair before the pirate can fall to the deck, and pulls him up with a sharp jerk.

“You wanna have fun, huh?” Haar echoes calmly. His whole body is tense, radiating a dangerous, ugly fury belied by his blank expression. “I can help with that.”

He foregoes his axe in favour of curling his hand into a fist and striking it across the man’s face. Barclay folds like paper, tumbling to the deck with a mighty thud. Haar digs his knee into the man’s arm as he bends down and continues to bring his fists down, once, twice, thrice—he stops counting, losing himself in the rhythm of his knuckles meeting flesh. His blood roars in his ears. The deck is already awash with red, but it’s quickly being washed out by the rain and seawater beginning to pool around them. Haar ignores it. He’s steady and focused, fury driving every blow down with full force—

“Haar, we have to _go_.”

—then Cormag is there, gripping his forearm just as he’s about to bring down another punch. He’s unyielding, even under the intensity of Haar’s stare when the wyvern rider tries to yank his arm back. “We have to go,” the blonde repeats firmly, not letting go of his arm. “You’ve taught this dastard his lesson, and we have Kiran back. Let’s move before we go down with this wretched ship!”

“Cormag’s right,” comes another voice, smaller but just as hard. Kiran moves forward on unsteady legs to touch his shoulder, her expression weary. “Let’s—let’s just go back, Haar. Please.”

Haar looks at her, his rage still brimming beneath his veins like a fire. Her hair is plastered to her skin, the wound on her forehead is still bleeding, and she looks exhausted. Slowly, he stands, ignoring the wet, pained sounds of the man beneath him. He watches her as she slowly picks up his fallen axe with a wince and follows Cormag, back towards where Ranulf is at the bridge still connecting the ship to the pier. Haar’s hands, still shaking and curled into tight fists, only unfurl when she narrowly stumbles halfway there. He catches her, steadying her until he notices the bloody handprints his hands leave on her clothes. Then he pulls away, silently, to help her onto his wyvern’s back instead.

None of them linger to watch the ship sink below the black, crashing waves.

////

Haar washes up before he goes to visit her in the healing wing. Cormag forces him to.

“You look like a proper nightmare,” his fellow wyvern rider mutters, with little real heat in his voice. He looks tired, even as he moves around Haar’s room to drag up fresh clothes and towels. When he pushes him towards his bathroom, he adds in a softer voice, “Go wash up and collect yourself, alright? I’ll see you there.”

Then he’s gone. Haar doesn’t budge for a long moment. His body feels heavy. His mind is heavier, flashes of seeing a hulking man throw the Summoner across the deck darting through his mind. His eye slides shut at the wave of fresh emotion it brings, and he heaves a slow sigh. “Bath,” he mutters to himself hollowly. “Right.”

He bathes, washing himself with a quick, brisk efficiency he hasn’t used since his early dracoknight years. He can almost hear General Shiharam’s shouting, the same voice he always used with new recruits that slept in past morning rollcall. His former mentor’s voice pounds in his skull as he watches the red swirl down the drain. None of it is his own. He still scrubs at his bruised knuckles until the skin is even redder and raw, feeling dirty. When he climbs out of the tub to towel himself off, he feels marginally more alive. Tired, but alive.

He pulls on clean clothes and a fresh eyepatch. He glances at his bed longingly, but thinks of Kiran and the urge to sleep dips beneath the worry that twists in his chest.

He goes to the healing wing.

It’s crowded, but it seems as though Maribelle is already dispersing people by force. “She needs _rest_ , you silly, overprotective fools!” he hears her snapping at them, pointing her parasol with vicious emphasis. “How do you honestly expect her to get the sleep she needs if everyone and their mother is trying to barge in here for a casual little chit-chat?!”

“N-Now, now, my lady! We just wanted to check on her,” Laslow says, already cringing away from the pointy end of her parasol. “When we all heard that she came back in quite a state, naturally we were all worried—”

“Yeah!” Delthea huffs, Julia nodding nervously beside her. “The least you could do is just let us see her! It’ll be _super_ quick, just enough to put our hearts at ease knowing she’s alright!”

Julian, carrying a basket filled with items ranging anywhere from fruit to chocolates, musters a sheepish smile. “I just want to check in and drop off a ‘get well soon’ basket,” he points out, holding it up. “Lena helped pick it all out. Somethin’ ‘bout all the fruit getting the Summoner the nutrients she needs to get better fast, y’know?”

Maribelle casts them all a terrifying glare. “You may all claim it will be ‘quick’,” she sniffs, “but I am _well_ aware that it will be anything but!”

“Cormag is already inside, though,” Tana points out with a frown, and fixes the feisty healer with a pleading, blue-eyed gaze. “Please, Maribelle? We promise we’ll all be on our finest behaviour, I assure you!”

“Cormag is only inside because Kiran requested for it. That is the only reason he is not among the rest of you, twittering away at me,” Maribelle replies sharply, scarcely batting an eye at the princess’ pout. Then her eyes catch Haar lingering on the outskirts of the crowd, and she whips her parasol—narrowly clocking Morgan in the head and forcing Gaius to duck—to point at him with a flourish. “ _You_. You may enter. Come now, be quick about it!” When that causes a new wave of begging and protesting, she rolls her eyes and raps her parasol on the floor with three, quick angry taps. “Honestly! Must I educate you all in the art of listening to a lady when she _speaks_? Kiran asked for them, now hush! I am not above using a Silence staff if you continue with your nattering!”

Haar pushes through, ignoring the envied stares that follow him until Maribelle ushers him through the door. She shuts it promptly behind him and he stands in the quiet of the healing wing for a moment. It’s empty, save for the beds closest to the windows; he can see the silhouettes behind the curtain drawn for privacy. Something in his chest catches when he recognizes Kiran’s voice, light and cheerful, chiming with the low baritone of Cormag’s. It grounds him, his feet carrying him in slow steps further into room as he listens to them speak.

“You hit him with his _own_ spell?” Cormag sounds baffled, if not a little impressed.

“Kinda,” Kiran laughs, and Haar watches her silhouette gesture with her hands while she speaks. She always does that. “I noticed that even though he had a lot of fire mages on his crew, he didn’t seem really the type to use magic. Y’know, big, burly and, ah…not very _bright_? That’s absolutely cookie-cutter brigand trope right there.” She snorts. “When he dragged me down to his room, I was scrambling for a plan. Then I saw that he had lots and lots of tomes around. Probably because he was dying to learn how to use at least one of them, but all of them were in cases, as if he never even opened them before. So, I sorta…taunted him.”

Cormag sounds tired now. “Taunted. You _taunted_ your kidnapper.”

Kiran has the decency to sound ashamed. “Not smart, I know, _I know_ , but I had to take the gamble! There was no way to overpower him, and besides…he—” her voice falters here, sounding small in the sparse room, “—he was already going to…break…my legs. To make it so…so I couldn’t run away.” She falls silent for a long moment. Haar hears Cormag mutter scathing choice words for Barclay, before Kiran quickly presses on, forcing cheer in her voice, “He fell for the taunt, though. He took an Arcfire right off the shelf and wound up blowing himself up in the process! Unfortunately, as you can tell, I got caught a little in the crossfire, though. Ha. Get it?” Cormag must give her a look, however, because she immediately adds, chagrined, “Okay, no, that was a bad one. Sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood, but it obviously isn’t the best time to try and…”

She trails off as she spots Haar when he finally makes it to the bed. A pang sinks in his chest when he sees her: she’s fresh-faced and patched up thankfully, but there’s gauze on her forehead, neck and hands, and she’s wearing an eyepatch. She looks at him, brightening—then quickly sobering down to a quiet understanding when she reads his face.

“I’d say we match now, but I already made one bad joke, so…” she trails off, gesturing to her eye with a weak smile. It fades into a worried frown. “How do you feel?”

“Figures _you’d_ ask _me_ that,” Haar mutters, moving to sit next to Cormag. Kiran is still waiting for an answer, though, so he replies with a curt, “Fine.”

Kiran isn’t hurt by his tone, though. Instead, she looks relieved. “Good. At this point, I’ll take ‘fine’,” she sighs, before she slowly lies back down. She stares up at the ceiling with a thoughtful brown eye. A silence falls between the trio, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Outside the door, they can still hear the muffled voices of Heroes still attempting to get past Maribelle. Kiran hums. “I miss my coat.”

That earns a small chuckle out of Cormag, albeit a weary one. Haar doesn’t laugh along, but his shoulders sag as the last bit of tension leaves his body. Kiran grins, and doesn’t protest when he only sighs and lowers his head to rest on the mattress. He closes his eye, listening to Kiran make idle chatter with Cormag, who sounds equally relieved to just chat about anything and everything.

(Later on, when Maribelle has finally chased off the last stubborn Hero away from the doorway, she finds them sleeping. Cormag is snoozing on his chair, chin on his chest and arms folded loosely across his chest. Kiran is snoring soundly, but her one good hand is atop Haar’s, sitting atop the bed. The wyvern rider’s upper body is bent over the bed in what can’t be a comfortable position, but his chest is rising with slow, steady breaths.

The healer wavers, her hand on her parasol. She’s prepared to unleash another thorough reprimand until the two wyvern riders leave, too. She stops when she notices that Haar is holding the Summoner’s hand back.

She leaves quietly, making a reminder to herself to tell Lissa that the rumours of Askr’s crown prince and Summoner being together may be wrong after all.)

iii.

“This is actually a lot harder to do with one eye.”

Kiran makes a face at the Summoning Stone, annoyed with how off her aim has been. She’s either missed the stone entirely, or fired off the wrong coloured orb. She’s already ushered off a bemused Draug and Barst back home. Now she’s aiming Breidablik with a determined scowl at the remaining two colourless orbs still shining in the stone’s sockets. Haar watches as she takes careful aim, as best she can with only one good eye, her finger wavering on the trigger before she finally pulls and fires.

The swirl of lights skim over the top of the stone, missing it entirely, and she groans.

“Maybe I should just wait until Rhys gives me the all-clear to take this patch off,” she sighs miserably, picking at the strap of her eyepatch. She turns to Haar, who’s still lounging in the grass nearby, content to bask in the sunshine. “What do you think?”

“I think you need to aim a smidge lower and to your left,” he answers lazily, without opening his eye. When she fires off another shot and lets out a frustrated noise when it’s another miss, he adds wryly, “Your _other_ left.”

Kiran snorts, despite herself. “Funny,” she deadpans, and inches closer. “Maybe if I get _right_ up to it…”

Haar peeks, watching as she attempts to balance on the closest-most stone to where the Summoning Stone is sitting atop its pedestal. It’s in the middle of a sparkling, crystal pool, with only a handful of mossy stones leading to it. He debates on whether or not to tell the Summoner that it likely isn’t a good idea for her to try and inch closer, most of all when she isn’t the most coordinated individual on a good day. Those rocks seem slippery.

“Gah!”

She falls into the pool before he can.

Thankfully, the pool is only knee-deep, so Kiran winds up sprawled awkwardly in the water. She blinks, and looks so genuinely baffled over actually falling that Haar lets out something dangerously close to a laugh. She casts him a withering glance, but her lips twitch into a grin after a few moments of trying—and failing—to get offended. “It’s a sign,” she announces as she flails her way out of the water. “Claude’s older form will just have to wait.”

Haar stretches. He’s comfortable, sprawled out on the grass. The garden is always a nice spot to nab a nap, most of all in the little grove where the Summoning Stone stands. The sunshine streams through the overhanging trees, just enough to keep the area warm, and it’s private. It’s an area only for Kiran, after all, as well as any Hero that she allows to tag along with her for each summoning session. He’s napped here before, initially without permission—in the early days of his time in Askr when he always tried to duck away from battles to sleep—but now he can nap here whenever he wants …with explicit permission from Kiran, of course. He had to use that card once, when Anna had caught him snoring in the bushes.

He’s going to nap again today, but first, he supposes he has a Summoner to help.

Reluctantly, he heaves himself to his feet and ambles over to tug Kiran out of the water completely. He pulls a little too hard, though. She stumbles a little into him, but she’s even quicker to peel away, red-cheeked. She mutters something about not wanting to get him wet, her eyes dropping to the puddle that’s quickly forming around her now-soggy boots. Haar absently notes that the red creeps all the way to her ears, which makes something in his chest twist a little. He even doesn’t realize he’s running a finger lightly over the edge of one red-tinted ear until Kiran’s spluttering and slapping a hand over the ear in question. She stares at him, wide-eyed. She’s bright red now.

_Huh,_ he thinks, and pokes her in the forehead gently, just to see her expression crumple into confusion. He’s mindful not to touch the gauze there. “Here, try again,” he tells her, mindful to keep his voice level. He ignores how the twist in his chest has evolved to a queasy flutter. “I’ll lend you a hand, one eyepatch-owner to another.”

“How?” Kiran asks, part-suspicious, part-nervous.

Haar thinks back to when he had seen Ike, his older form, attempting to instruct a flustered Laslow in swordsmanship. He remembers how red the dancer had become back then when Ike had gotten close to correct his stance. Naturally the leader of the Greil Mercenaries hadn’t meant anything by it, but Laslow’s reaction brings an idea to the wyvern rider’s mind—one that’s oddly promising to the warmth bubbling in his gut—so he says, “Here, take aim again.” Kiran squints at him, still wary, but slowly obeys, twisting around to level Breidablik at the Summoning Stone again. “Alright, now, move your arm a little higher…”

He moves behind her, arms coming around her to help move her limbs to where they need to go. He doesn’t miss the way she tenses the moment she realizes their proximity to one another. Feeling daring, he lets his hand linger over hers as he steadies her slackening grip on Breidablik. She fits in his arms, warm and just the right height that if he leans his head down a little, he’ll be able to rest his forehead on her shoulder.

“Pull the trigger,” he tells her once he’s lined her aim properly, mindful of how she shivers at his voice ghosting over her ear.

Kiran doesn’t say a word, but he feels her hand move and a beat later, Breidablik fires. The light hits the colourless orb dead-on, and smoke swirls around the stone as the light slowly shifts into a silhouette. Haar feels a stab of disappointment when a bewildered Brady appears instead of the Golden Deer leader’s older form. He wonders if this is what Kiran feels every time she undergoes a summoning ritual.

He doesn’t have much time to linger on it, however, when he feels Kiran lean back against him. It’s a slight movement, almost enough that he misses it, but the haunch of her shoulders gives away her embarrassment. His heart gives a little skip; his arms twitch to tighten around her.

Brady looks around. His eyes widen when he sees them, and his cheeks pinken. “W-Whoa! Um…I-I, uh, don’t really know where the heck I even _am_ , but…” he averts his gaze shyly, glancing back at them nervously. “I-I ain’t interruptin’, am I?”

“ _Of course not_!” Kiran bursts out, her voice cracking on the ‘not’. She laughs, high-pitched and nervous, and ducks away from Haar as quickly as she can. She narrowly falls into the water again, but recovers. Instead, she grabs Brady by the arm and pulls him along. Haar catches her flaming cheeks before she ducks her head low and tugs her hood over her head, all in a quick, flustered motion. She almost drops Breidablik in her haste to holster it again. “C-C’mon, t-this way—I’ll introduce you to everyone, okay? D-Don’t you worry, Brady, we’re glad to have you!”

“Um…sure, but you’re—you’re real red, y’know. You good there, pal?”

“ _Fine_ , absolutely-fine-let’s-just-go!”

And they leave, Kiran ushering Brady out and throwing a hasty ‘bye’ over her shoulder as they go. Haar watches them leave. He feels oddly cold now, standing alone in the grove, despite the sunshine still streaming through the branches overhead. He closes his eyes and sighs, pretending that there isn’t a swell of disappointment welling in his chest.

He has a nap to get back to, after all.

iv.

Haar has been hit by lightning magic before. Frankly put, it’s not the most fun experience. Wyvern riders, he knows, are not meant to take bolts from the blue, and certainly won’t come through unscathed if they do. He’s still sporting a few grisly scars after taking on an Arcthunder or three from the wars back in his own world.

As the Rexbolt hits him square in the back, he has the split-second realization that someone has done their research. The next second, the world melts away to a mesh of crackling electricity and flashing colours; somewhere, far-off, he hears the panicked, concerned roar of his partner. He wants to tell them that it’ll be okay, that they’ll finally be able to be free. He wants to thank them for always sticking by his side, no matter how incorrigible their rider could be at times.

He loses consciousness before he can even try to form the words.

When he wakes up, his head is throbbing, his body feels stiff, and he’s in a dark cell. His arms are bound behind his back. His ankles are shackled. He’s missing his armour and weapons, including the spare knife he keeps strapped to the inside of his boot for emergencies.

_Great,_ he thinks, wincing when he shifts and his ribs immediately protest. He fights to even out his breathing, closing his eyes against the wave of dizziness that washes over him from the pain. Instead, he falls back on his instincts and slowly tries to collect himself. His mind wearily shuffles through the injuries he can tell, sluggish as analyzes his situation. _Broken ribs. Can’t feel my left leg. Dizzy, so might have a concussion. Back hurts like hell, probably from the spell. I’m obviously someone’s prisoner, but who?_

“Yer finally awake, huh?”

He gets his answer when a figure slinks out of the darkness, flanked by two hooded, robed individuals carrying Thunder tomes. The man who spoke seems to be their leader, if the way they hover back awaiting his instruction is any indication. He’s tall and lanky, clad in black, silken robes lined with gaudy golden thread. He curves his lips down at him in a cruel smirk, expression smarmy with self-satisfaction. “Figured we would hafta toss some water on ya, sleepin’ beauty,” he sneers. “Or maybe give ya ‘nother lil’ shock or two.”

He takes out a painfully familiar-looking tome from one of his sleeves, its gleaming purple cover making the throbbing between Haar’s shoulder blades intensify at recognizing it. A Rexbolt. “I’m good,” he manages to mutter in response, grateful his voice doesn’t shake. He weighs his options, eye sliding to the two mages flanking the first. He’s obviously at a disadvantage so long as he’s bound like this. The prospect of being interrogated for information is a grim one, but it’s not one he hasn’t undergone before. He’s patient. He can bide his time and wait for his inevitable opportunity to try and free himself somehow.

“Are ya now?” the man hums thoughtfully before his expression twists into outraged fury. “Wish I could say the same ‘bout my lil’ brother, too.” When Haar gives no reaction to that, the man rears back with indignant fury and all but howls, “Don’t even try to pretend ya forgot him! The same ol’ sea-rat whose ugly mug ya caved in and left to sink t’the bottom of the ocean, ya mangy Askr _dog_!”

Oh, _him._ Haar feels a stab of vindictive pleasure. “Sorry, the lack of family resemblance threw me off,” he drawls casually. Then, before his brain can taper off his mouth and keep him from doing so, he adds for the sole reason of being petty, “Now that I’ve gotten a good look at you, though, I can see the familiarity: big and stupid.”

His captor takes a step forward, face colouring an ugly, angry purple—but he stops himself, moments away from seemingly attempting to throttle the wyvern rider with his bare hands. “No…no, no, yer just tryin’ to goad me, ain’tcha? It ain’t gonna work. The Great Marclay is far too smart for that,” he mutters, stepping away with a glower. He clears his throat, smoothing down imagined wrinkles from his garish robes. “I gotta carve information outta ya first before I subject ya to the worst pain _imaginable_ …by the time I’m threw wif ya, nobody is gonna be able to recognize ya! Not even the fishes when I dump yer sorry hide in the sea! Not even yer own _mother_ would—”

“Right, right, horrible death, lots of pain, got it,” Haar sighs. “Look, if you’re going to try and interrogate me, just get on with it. It’s bad enough that I have to sit here and listen to you. I don’t want to have to sit through long-winded threats, too.”

“I’m going to carve out yer tongue,” Marclay hisses, evidently not pleased his blasé attitude. “Only way yer gonna hold it.” Haar shrugs as best he can in his restraints, unable to deny the truth of the statement. The man huffs out a frustrated sound and steps forward. He looms over him. “For now, though, I need ya to flap that useless tongue of yers to cough up the information I need to nab that blasted Summoner of yers once and fer all. Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ a cash cow like that get away, most of all when it already cost me brother his own life! So, on that note…”

He snaps his fingers and one of the mages steps forward, murmuring something under their breath. Electricity flares to life in their hand, crackling into a jagged dagger that the mage brandishes at him threateningly. Haar eyes it warily.

Marclay only smiles. “…how ‘bout I just carve out yer other eye first? Ya don’t need to see where yer goin’ after all this, after all.”

Haar swallows another smart comment, knowing that it likely won’t go well for him. He’s already in a tough spot. He tests the restraints on his arms as the mage steps forward. Maybe if they get close enough, he can headbutt them and go from there—but it quickly becomes a plan that withers before he can even start it the moment the other mage steps forward as silent back-up. They’re tall and imposing, and slowly hold up their tome in a way that makes Haar think they’re sooner going to clock him in the head with it than actually open it.

A beat later, that’s exactly what they do. They just don’t do it to _him_.

He watches, stumped, when the mage with the book hits the other straight across the face with a whack loud enough to echo in the dismal corners of the cell. They instantly crumple, electricity fizzing out the moment they fall unconscious. Marclay lets out a shriek that’s equal parts horrified and furious, his Rexbolt tome opening with a flourish of sparks as he curses, “What the hell d’ya think yer _doin’_ , ya dim-witted, clumsy, horrible lil’—”

But the strange mage lunges at him, too, already swinging the book before he can finish his sentence. It smacks him across one cheek with a clap; then across the other when the book backhands him in a second, quicker swipe. He takes a few unsteady backwards, reaching out dazedly towards the mage. His hands wrap around the scruff of their cloak, just as the mage brings the book up with a mighty—and familiar—cry. It meets his chin in a mighty blow, strong enough to make his teeth shut with a _clack_ , and send him flying backwards. He drags the cloak along with him, narrowly yanking it off the mage altogether.

Haar already knows who is underneath, however, without having to see them fumble around blindly to fix it. That doesn’t change the bloom of relief that unravels within him when Kiran finally manages to tug her head free of the tangled purple robes, tugging the hood down to reveal wide, worried eyes and disheveled hair. She twitches towards him, evidently concerned, before she seemingly remembers the situation they’re in; she pauses long enough to check to ensure Marclay and the other mage are truly unconscious. She only rushes to his side when she’s positive they are.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing that tumbles out of her mouth, frantic and concerned. Her expression twists, her hands gentle against his skin as they hover anxiously over his face. “Wait, of course you’re not—damn it, look at what they _did_ to you! I should have hit him more. Using a tome as a melee weapon worked better with this brother than the other one.” She runs her thumb over his cheek in an unmistakably tender gesture. Haar wants to savour the sensation, but she brushes against one part that is particularly sore and he winces, despite himself. It’s more than enough for the mood to shift back to panic, as she quickly moves behind him to work on his bindings. “H-Hold still, I’m gonna get you free then we can meet up with the others, okay?”

“Not like I’m goin’ anywhere,” he murmurs, hoping it sounds more comforting than snarky. He’s tired, the adrenaline already sinking out of his veins into tentative relief that he’s going to be okay, after all. “How’d ya find me?”

“It was all Matthew and Leila,” she explains as she starts cutting the ropes. “They were part of the scouting party that we created the moment your wyvern flew back to the castle without you. He’s okay, by the way! Really worried and cranky, but I promised we’d get you back. It was the only way to make him stay put, since he wouldn’t let anyone else ride him but you.” She manages to free one of his hands, and works on the other while he rolls his wrist slowly to test how it feels. It’s sore, but thankfully not broken. “It took us about two days to track you down here once we figured out it was probably the same group from that boat. Matthew and Leila infiltrated this ol’ castle they’ve been using as their base, way out near the eastern coast of the kingdom, and figured out this plan to sneak in with disguises. Marclay is a pretty powerful mage, unlike his brother, so this whole castle is swarming with them. Hence the robes.”

Haar’s brow furrows as he tries to fight the edges of unconsciousness already tugging at the edge of his vision. They aren’t in the clear yet. _No sleeping yet,_ he tells himself stubbornly. “Makes sense,” he mumbles, hoping it actually does. His brain is too muddled to really tell. “Why aren’t they with you then?”

Kiran doesn’t reply for a long moment. Haar takes it as her focusing to get the rest of the ropes off. When she finally cuts through the last one and moves back around him to look at the shackles on his ankles, he sees the chagrin on her face. Even through his likely-concussion, he finds it suspicious.

“Kiran,” he repeats, slowly. “Why aren’t they here?”

She fiddles with the shackles, testing the strength of the chains linking his ankles together. “They _are_ here,” she answers eventually, not looking at him, “just—not here-here. With us. Right now.”

Haar sighs and slowly buries his injured face in his hands. “You snuck in,” he says. A statement, not a question.

“ _Weeeeeell_ ,” Kiran starts, her voice pitching, and he sighs again. She cringes. “I—I wasn’t going to at first, but when I saw Matthew and Leila handing out robes to everyone, I snuck one for myself. It was a good thing I did, though! I saw this goon shouting at a few mages nearby to rally up and join him to interrogate the prisoner, and figured there was a good chance that prisoner might’ve been you.” She casts a wry glance at Marclay, still passed out on the floor. “He picked me because I looked ‘big and burly’ enough to be intimidating.”

“Why do most of your strategies rely on luck more than actual strategy?” Haar asks wearily.

Kiran shrugs meekly. “It hasn’t failed me yet,” she confesses sheepishly, before her expression grows serious. “Okay, I can’t get these shackles off you since I wasn’t able to find any keys anywhere, but this could actually work in our favour. You won’t be able to move really well, unfortunately, but I don’t think you’re really in the condition to move much anyway.”

Haar lifts his head from his hands. “You got a plan?”

She nods and tugs the hood back over her head, hiding her face away once more.

“I’m going to do what Marclay thought I could do best: be big and burly as I escort the prisoner away under his orders,” she says. “I still remember the way out of here, so if we’re quick and careful, we can make it back there before people realize Marclay isn’t back from his interrogation.”

As far as plans go, it isn’t much, but it’s _something_. Haar nods reluctantly, and watches as Kiran moves away to drag the unconscious enemies away from the door. She tucks each one in the corner closest to the entrance, out of sight from the slot meant for guards to peek inside, and binds their hands as best she can with the cut-up rope. Once that’s done, she quickly gathers up their tomes, checking them for any hidden weapons. She stuffs them under her cloak and likely in her belt underneath the garish purple robes, and hurries to help him stand.

She’s careful, urging him to lean on her as he slowly tests his legs. When his left one folds underneath him and he falls with a curse, she’s quick to catch him, arms secure under his. He breathes through his nose hard, and once the pain ebbs down to a dull ache, he chokes out, “I…I can still walk, but I’ll be slow. They probably broke my ankle somewhere along the line.”

“Don’t—don’t push yourself,” she mutters, not moving away. Her voice is trembling. “J-Just take it slow.”

“What happened to big and burly?” he counters, gently pushing her away until he can try and test how well he can support himself with only one good leg. His muscles scream in protest, but it’s doable, he thinks, just until they can get out. Hopefully. “You’re not goin’ to be very convincing if you’re babying the mighty Marclay’s enemy number one.”

“Haar—” she starts tersely, but thinks better of it and stops. Instead, she nods stiffly and wraps a length of rope around his wrists, loose enough to not dig in, but tight enough to look as if they’re actually binding his arms behind his back. She sounds a little more confident when she says, a beat later, “Right. Let’s go.”

She pushes him forward lightly, just enough to get him to move out of the door first, and shuts it behind her with a _clang._ She tugs the rope, and they make their way down the hall slowly. He hears her sharp breath when they pass by a couple of mages that glance at them curiously. “Where d’ya think yer takin’ the prisoner?” one asks, suspicious. “Ain’t Lord Marclay supposed t’be teachin’ him a lesson right ‘bout now?”

Kiran clears her throat. “What d’ya think I’m _doin’_? I’m takin’ him where Lord Marclay told me to,” she answers back gruffly. “Do _ya_ wanna be t’one t’tell the boss why this lazy dog ain’t where he wants him? Boss’ orders are always absolute, ain’t they? Or do ya got a problem wif that?”

“Well, no, but I coulda _sworn_ —”

“Huh?” Kiran cuts in, and Haar forces himself not to snicker at the way stalks forward to loom over the other mage, puffing her shoulders up to look even bigger. It works surprisingly well, as the mage immediately cows away, intimidated by the difference in their heights. She leans in after him and mocks, “Sorry, I didn’t hear ya. Were ya doubtin’ the boss’ orders there, or was it just the wind I was hearin’?”

There’s a terse moment when the mage visibly hesitates. His companion, however, eventually tugs on his sleeve with a mutter of, ‘it ain’t worth it, mate’ and he finally crumbles. “N-No, no,” he shakes his head and steps away. “It was jus’ the wind, ‘course.”

Kiran huffs. “’s what I thought,” she snarls, and stomps back to give Haar a shove that narrowly makes him topple over. It’s enough to make him put weight on his bad ankle and let out a stifled sound of pain, though. “Go on wif ya, Askr dog! Keep it movin’!”

It makes the mages offer up nervous laughter at Haar’s expense, before they thankfully hurry on their way. Kiran waits until they’re gone, well after they round a corner down the hall, to immediately apologize. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her hands shaking as she steadies him. “I—I panicked!”

“Nah, it’s fine, I’m fine,” he shakes his head, steeling himself against the pain. “Keep it up. Even _I_ thought you were one of ‘em.” He huffs out a small laugh. “The ‘lazy dog’ was a nice touch. Should I be offended?”

“It’s all pretend,” she jokes back, but her heart isn’t in it. The worry is blatant on her face, but to her credit, she still asks him, “Ready to keep moving?”

_No,_ he thinks, but nods anyway and pushes onward.

They actually manage to the back gate, looming tall and foreboding. Haar doesn’t allow himself to relish in the freedom of victory quite yet. It’s a good thing he does, as panicked shouting immediately erupts from further down the hall. Alarmed voices echo down, and Haar catches a few choice words: _prisoner escaped_ and _find them_ , and he knows their jig is up.

“Shit, we’re almost _there_ ,” Kiran curses, glancing back over their shoulder anxiously. The hallway is empty for now, but it’s evidently a gamble to continue onward—when Haar still can’t move very quickly and Kiran can’t carry him—versus lingering and risking the mages finding them. She wavers. “The stables are so close…”

Haar slumps against the wall wearily. “Just leave me here and get out on your own,” he tells her, softly. “These are the creeps that wanted you in the first place. I’ll be fine in the long run, you know.” He gestures vaguely to her. “Breidablik’ll just bring me back, after all. It ain’t—”

He stops himself from saying it isn’t a big deal at the face she gives him. She looks stricken, and he almost kicks himself. _Stupid,_ he thinks to himself, guilt pooling at the pit of his belly. _Said the number one thing I shouldn’t have._

There isn’t enough time to linger on it, however, not when the voices appear to get closer. He sees Kiran’s expression harden. “Come on,” she says, and tugs him towards the closest door.

It’s a small room, dingy and dusty and dark; it’s cramped, likely storage for cleaning supplies back when the castle still had servants around to clean it. She still maneuvers him inside quickly, muttering a quick apology when he bangs his head on an overhanging shelf. She hustles in after him and slides the door shut behind them, plunging them in complete darkness. His brain is acutely aware of how close they’re pressed together for all of two seconds before it sags back into pained exhaustion—to the point where he doesn’t realize his head is lolling forward until it lands on what he hopes is her shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mutters, both for resting it there and for his earlier words.

“It’s fine,” she whispers back, tone unreadable. His heart skips a little when she lifts her arms to wrap around him, pulling him closer to lean against her. “I’ll support you as best as I can. It’s better to keep the weight off your leg.”

Haar is vaguely tempted to try and crack a line on it being a peculiar way to get him to hug her. He doesn’t. It doesn’t seem like the right mood, most of all with such a tense and strange air between them. Outside, the voices rush past them. He closes his eye against his instincts raging at him to push her further inside the closet and hurry outside by himself to keep them from finding both of them. Instead, he chooses to be selfish and sags against her, head spinning at how warm she is. He wishes, faintly, he could see her face; he wonders if she’s blushing again. He can almost imagine it.

“Haar?” she speaks after a few agonizingly long minutes of listening to the commotion outside. He grunts to let her know he’s still awake, and he feels her grip on him tighten a little. “If— _when_ we make it out of here, do you…do you want to go back to Tellius?”

His brain, tired as it is, still stutters over the question. “What?”

“I could send you back,” she goes on, quietly. “You could go back to running your cargo company in Talrega, back to an easy life free of fighting and getting hurt and—”

Her voice hitches, and he immediately understands. “It would be easier,” he agrees, and holds her when she stifles something suspiciously like a sob, “but nah. I’ll pass.” Her shoulder trembles underneath him. He tells himself this is stupid, that it isn’t the right time for any of this, but his selfish streak is still running past the logic of his brain so he adds, “You wouldn’t be there, after all.”

She doesn’t reply. Haar tells himself that he’s a grown man and beyond feeling awkward, but that doesn’t change the regret beginning to creep over him. This is precisely why he doesn’t like dealing with others, never allows himself to get personal with anyone beyond the comradery of battle. Jill always criticized him for it, insisting that he deserved his chance at happiness just as much as anyone else, but he always ignored her. Feelings are always clumsy.

Clumsy like the lips that pass over his face, almost too light to register save for the warmth they leave near his chin, mere inches from his mouth.

He only registers that it’s a kiss when she snaps her head back, as if remembering herself. It’s quick enough for her to narrowly bang her own skull against the wall. “Sorry,” Kiran chokes out. She almost pulls away from him before she remembers that she’s supporting his bad leg, but she still flusters, “T-This isn’t—we shouldn’t—”

She falls silent when he reaches up to feel her face. His thumb brushes against her lips and he feels the regret melt away. “Quit talking,” he murmurs, already leaning in. “We don’t want ‘em to hear us.”

Her protest dies the moment he slides their mouths together, slow and tentative. Kiran tenses against him for all of a second before she melts, returning the kiss with a fervor that makes his head spin. _Or maybe that’s the concussion,_ he thinks, before his reason fades into the sickly-sweet feelings rising within him. He isn’t about to miss this opportunity, not when there’s still likely dozens of people searching for them outside; if he’s going to die, he’s going to die satisfied.

Her arm shifts, and he breaks the kiss to wince when she brushes over his broken ribs. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, sounding more than a little breathless. She moves to support him better, murmuring, “This probably isn’t the best time or place for this—”

He kisses her again, just because he can; and because he doesn’t want to hear logic, not now. “What I say about no talking?” he mumbles against her lips, relishing the way she shivers.

The kiss is narrowly deepening when there’s a sudden _thud_ just outside the door and Kiran snaps away, instantly on guard. Haar, dazed and more than a little sluggish from both feelings and his own injuries, is slower to react. He forces himself to focus, most of all when he feels Kiran shifting them around until it feels as if she’s in front of him, closest to the door; as if to shield him from whoever is likely on the other end of it. “I still have the dagger Leila gave me,” she mutters. “Stay behind me.”

Haar is about to tell her how much he doesn’t like that idea when the door swings open. They both tense, squinting against the sudden light, but a cheerful voice greets them instead of a dozen angry ones, “Well, well! Looks like I found our runaway Summoner _and_ our kidnapped resident napper. I knew checking every dusty little closet in this castle would pay off eventually! Matthew is absolutely going to lose the bet we had going.”

“Leila!” Kiran sags with visible relief, almost teary-eyed with joy. “I’m so happy I could kiss you right now, you know.”

Leila smiles back at her, warm and amused. “Best make that a peck on the cheek,” she teases. “I doubt the man behind you would be very happy if you tried smooching anyone that wasn’t him.”

Haar wisely chooses not to comment on that and winces. “Can this be the part where I’m rescued finally?”

“Aw, but what if Kiran was already doing that? Y’know, just in case you’d need mouth-to—”

“ _Leila_ ,” Kiran clears her throat, already red. “Haar’s, uh, still really injured. Could you help me get him out of here?”

The thief laughs, but still moves forward to help. Haar ignores the knowing smirk she throws him, too tired to focus on much else except for staying awake as they finally make their way out of the castle. He doesn’t allow himself to drift off until he’s settled on one of the wagons they swipe from the stables, pulled along to Askr since they don’t have a portal to take them there quicker.

He falls asleep, his head on Kiran’s lap and her fingers threading through his hair.

////

When he wakes up, he’s in the healing wing and Kiran is doing something to the cast around his foot. His wyvern is curled up nearby, snoring comfortably.

He watches her sleepily. It takes him a few seconds to realize that she’s drawing something, her expression pinched with concentration; her eyes glance from his partner and back to the cast, hand scribbling at something. She sits back after a minute to look at her work thoughtfully. She must sense something, however, because she glances up—and narrowly drops the quill she’s using to draw when she realizes he’s already awake. Her surprise quickly melts to concern. “How you feeling?”

“Tired,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. He nods in the general direction of his foot. “What were you doin’?”

“Drawing on your cast. It’s something I did for my friends whenever they had to wear one back home, and I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up, so…” she trails off with a shrug, a smile already tugging at her lips. “It’s a little different trying to draw anything with a quill, though. I tried drawing your wyvern.”

Haar musters enough effort to lift his head from his cushy pillow to peer down and see a glimpse of squiggles that look nothing like his partner (not that the oversized gecko would care, he thinks with exasperated fondness). He weighs his options of being honest or being nice for all of five seconds before he gives up and asks, “Where’s his tail?”

Kiran just grins. “It’s an artistic impression,” she sniffs with a mocking haughty tilt to her voice that quickly dissolves into a laugh. She puts aside the quill and scoots her stool closer until, to his pleasant surprise, she can hold his hand. She’s gauging his reaction as she does it, her cheeks already pinking. “This okay?”

He only interlocks their fingers in response, and she relaxes. Her eyes drop down to their joint hands, her expression softening. A silence falls between them, but it’s comfortable. She runs a thumb gently over his knuckles, and he tells himself he doesn’t like nearly as much as he really does. He fights the way it makes his eye droop.

“You can sleep, you know,” she says, noticing it. “You’ve more than earned it. I’ll fight anyone who says differently.”

He knows she’s only half-joking. Haar hums drowsily, focused on the feeling of her fingers against his. When she snorts and reaches over to brush the hair out of his eyes, he leans into the touch sleepily. His fingers curl around her wrist when she tries to pull away, and she looks at him curiously. Her cheeks flush when he tugs her closer pointedly, but he’s pleased to find that she still leans down to give him a peck—one that narrowly turns into more when he deepens it until she wiggles free.

Her face is bright red. It reminds him of the time in the grove, only better. “Not in the healing wing,” she coughs out. When he opens his mouth, she quickly adds, “ _A-And_ not until you’re actually healed, too.”

“And I thought Rhys was fussy,” he murmurs, but his lips are still quirked in a small smile as he settles back against the sheets.

Kiran makes a face at him, but still takes the time to pull the covers back over him properly. “Sleep,” she tells him firmly, which is something she never believed she would have to tell _him_ to do. She hesitates and then adds, gentler this time, “I’m glad you’re okay, Haar, and…and that you’re staying.”

He mumbles something that is meant to sound like, _I should be telling you that._

Sleep finally takes him before he can tell if she understood. The last thing he feels are lips on his forehead before unconsciousness wraps him in its blissful embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> falls over and does not get up again
> 
> in all seriousness, tho, I really do love haar. hes a fantastic character, my bias for him will continue to thrive.
> 
> ~~im still embarrassed posting this but eli is to blame for everything always~~  
>  ~~also my favourite part about this drabble is my summoner beating ppl up with a book becauses thats Who She Is~~
> 
>   
> as always, thank you so much for reading! pls bug me on my [twitter](http://twitter.com/jeann_eh) about FEH, esp if you, too, love haar fire emblem. kudos and comments are always welcome, but otherwise, take care!


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